


Middle Distance

by Huggle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Murder, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes missing during a case.  Desperately searching for him, Harold runs into the person most likely responsible.  Now if he wants to save John, he has to save himself first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Middle Distance

Harold used the bolt cutters to get through the chain wrapped around the double doors. He pulled it free, ignoring the loud rattle, and tossed it aside. The padlock crashed to the floor and he kicked it aside as he pulled one of the doors open and shoved his way through.

The only light from within the building came from the swimming pool, casting strange flickers across the walls but doing little to dispel the shadows.

John was here somewhere, he was sure of it. The moment his phone had cut out, Harold had known there was a problem. Barry Lindquist, the swim coach at the school, had turned out to be a threat to everyone in his way. Not just the children on his team who failed to meet the grade. Two of the parents who’d openly criticised his training methods were still unaccounted for.

Now John was too, and horrific visions were filling Harold’s mind, driving his heartbeat into a stampede. 

Mainly of John lying somewhere in this building, dying, while Lindquist calmly chained up the door and left him.

“John!” he called out. His voice bounced off the walls, taking a moment to settle. Harold listened – but there was no reply. It didn’t mean John wasn’t here – he might be unconscious, or unable to answer.

Lindquist could have done anything to him.

But there were only so many places John could be. The pool, thankfully, was empty – that had been the first thing he’d checked after breaking in. That left the locker rooms, the first aid room, the coach’s office – all places he and John had seen earlier that day when they had pretended to be supply teachers and received a quick tour.

Harold limped through them all as quickly as he could, and found that John was in none of them. He even checked the fire escape doors at the back – found them wedged open which was troubling – but John wasn’t outside either. Had Lindquist dragged John out through there? Planned to return hence the open doors?

Desperate, afraid the time he’d wasted here had cost John grievously, Harold made his around the pool. Where else could he look? If he could find Lindquist, perhaps Carter or Fusco could persuade him to reveal John’s whereabouts. 

He didn’t know that Lindquist was there until the man took a run at him and shouldered him into the pool.

With his speed and bulk, he sent Harold flying and he hit the water hard. He surfaced, spluttering and panicked.

Lindquist was down on one knee at the edge, hands gripping the side of the pool.

“Huh. New Economics teacher. Mr....Gull, was it?”

Harold panted as he started to tread water. “What did you do with him?”

“Him?” Lindquist looked puzzled. “Which him? Billy Buchanan’s dad? The whiny accountant? Do I tell him how to fuck over the IRS?”

“My friend,” Harold snapped. 

“Oh, the tall guy. Basketball coach. Yeah. Him. Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Please.” He’d beg if Lindquist gave up the information. Of course, Harold knew he’d then have to work out how to survive this situation to do anything with it. “Just tell me?”

Lindquist stood up and stared down at him. “Don’t see why. Not like you can do anything about it. You know, I didn’t buy you two as teachers. Didn’t know what you were – I thought maybe school inspectors undercover or something. Are you? Because I wouldn’t have shoved you in the pool if I’d known.”

He chortled at his own joke and looked offended when Harold didn’t join in. “Suit yourself. Did you look inside the lockers when you were nosing around back there?”

Harold managed to turn enough to look back in the direction of the locker room.

“No? That’s ok, because he isn’t there. Right now he’s out cold and tied up in my truck. And when I leave here, I’m going to finish him like I did Buchanan senior. I’m going to stick a bag over his head and hold it there until he’s done. I’ll probably bury them together. Maybe shove you in there as well.”

Harold’s breath stuck in his throat. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t plead or threaten. He was struggling to stay afloat, and a disabled man who was shortly going to drown in a pool had little leverage. 

That truck had been parked next to the chain link fence and he had been going to search it after he’d checked in here. John was going to die because he’d make the wrong call.

“I’m almost tempted to stand here and watch this,” Lindquist said. “I saw your limp earlier. Took a hard hit, didn’t you? Do you think you’re stubborn enough to make it to the side? Want to live enough? Want him to live enough? You’ve got some steel in you, little guy, I’ll give you that. You’re dead in the water, and he’s the one you ask about.”

With a shrug he turned away. “But no bet. You’ll go under before you ever get to the side. And your friend might be waking up by now. If you’ll take my advice – don’t fight it. Just let yourself sink and take a deep breath and it’ll be over before you know it.”

Harold watched him leave. On his way to kill John.

He struggled out of the wet weight of his overcoat, and then his suit jacket. He managed, with difficulty, to kick off his shoes. At least now he had a fighting chance.

Lindquist had shoved him hard enough to carry him a good distance into the water. It was difficult to judge, but Harold estimated he was maybe ten metres out, had probably flailed himself further in his initial rush for the surface.

He had never been a strong swimmer, but these days treading water was as much as he could manage.

But today, he had to do more.

He started to stroke awkwardly, aware instantly of the seizing pain that gripped his back and neck. His shoulders felt as if they’d turned to rock, a deep desperate ache spreading through bone and muscle. This was not impossible, he told himself. It couldn’t be. When the physical therapist at the hospital had told him that, after he’d refused to try and walk any further, he’d asked her what he had to gain by forcing himself on.

She hadn’t been able to answer him. She didn’t know him, had no idea what was valuable enough in his life to aim for.

So instead, she’d suggested the middle distance.

_Which is considered to be from four hundred metres_ , Harold had told her, waspishly. _Hardly comparable to the distance you want me to walk today_.

_Then you should have no trouble with it_. 

He’d been angry enough at her to drag himself back to the bars and make it to the end.

But he had another reason to make it out of this pool today.

John wasn’t going to die because he wasn’t strong enough to make himself live.

He kept going, eyes focused on the side. He immediately had a dilemma. Straight ahead was the shortest distance, but there was no ladder there. He wouldn’t be able to pull himself out.

But aiming for the corner, where the ladder was located, might add another five metres.

He probably didn’t have another five metres in him.

It was going to have to be the closest side.

Harold kept swimming, pushing the water out and behind him like he’d been taught when he was a child. It was the only stroke he’d ever learned – one was enough to keep from drowning, after all.

Even if he’d learned another, it was the only one he was fit to use these days.

Four metres to go.

By now, Lindquist would have reached the truck. Would he wait for John to wake up? Would he want to see John struggle, or would he prefer to have it over and done with if it meant less effort on his part?

Three metres.

A person could go two minutes at the most without air. Presuming he could get out of the pool on his first attempt, presuming he could reach the truck, presuming Lindquist didn’t drive away immediately after it was done and took John with him....

Presuming he had the strength to somehow incapacitate Lindquist and then start CPR on John.....

It was presuming a lot when he hadn’t even reached the side of the pool.

Two metres.

If John was conscious, he’d be more of a challenge than Lindquist expected. He knew they weren’t teachers, that was all. He wouldn’t be ready for John. Harold held to that, to the promise of additional time.

One metre.

He put on a last desperate burst of strength and his fingers fastened on the rim. His back and leg might not be up to much, but at John’s prompting he had taken steps to improve his physical fitness as best he could.

It had mostly been developing his upper body strength, but it stood him in good stead now. He hauled himself up so that his top half was above the edge of the pool. Then he leaned forward enough so that he could use his own weight as a counterbalance.

Harold groaned as the pain ratcheted up another level, but he swung himself around. His bad leg scraped off the tiled floor, and he knew it would be bleeding but it didn’t matter.

Now he just needed to get up.

He put his weight onto his hands, started to push himself onto his side – the only way he could rise from a prone position since the accident – when a foot pressed itself down hard in the middle of his back.

Despite himself, he screamed at the sudden flare of agony.

“You fucking did it,” Lindquist said. “Man, I gotta tell you – if those kids on my team showed half as much spunk as you? We’d be taking medals left, right and centre. It was motivation, right? Maybe that’s where I went wrong with those kids. Maybe dangling mom, dad and the little sis in front of them would have done the trick. Course, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

Lindquist moved his foot, and knelt down beside him. “Question is, can you do it again?”

He rolled Harold over, straight back towards the edge. 

No, Harold thought. Not again. He grabbed hold of Lindquist’s shirt and, when the coach made to push him in the water, used that motion against him. He pulled with it, and managed to twist Lindquist over the top of him and then into the pool.

He almost followed, managing to flop back in time to stay on the side.

Lindquist’s head cracked off the edge as he went in. He flailed a little, a ribbon of red spreading through the water as his struggles took him further towards the centre of the pool.

“You little bastard,” he panted, coughing as he swallowed water. “He isn’t in the truck. Help me or you’ll never find him.”

Harold managed to get to his knees. “Tell me where he is and I’ll help you get out.”

Lindquist stayed silent. He glared sullenly at Harold, looked away.

“Your choice. I’ll find him myself.” He got awkwardly, painfully to his feet. It took everything he had left not to cave, not to turn around and demand again to know where John was.

He was almost to the door when Lindquist yelled after him. “Ok, alright.”

Harold turned back. Lindquist was not doing as well as before. The head wound was bleeding more profusely and his eyes had a glazed look to them. He was the one now in danger of drowning.

“Tell me.”

Lindquist held out his hand. “Throw me something. I don’t trust you.”

“You’re the one who’s been murdering people. Who’s taken my associate. It’s ironic that you’re complaining about a lack of trust. No help unless you tell me what I want to know.”

“I can’t keep afloat for much longer.”

“Then you should stop stalling. Where is he?”

Lindquist gulped, and went under, and Harold couldn’t afford to take the chance. He looked around, desperately – there was a skimmer in the corner. He grabbed hold of it and reached it out across the water to Lindquist. 

The man surfaced, grabbed at it, and Harold didn’t miss the wily look on his face.

“If you try to pull me in, I’ll just let go. And you’ll be back where you started. This is your last chance. Where is he?”

Lindquist laughed. Harold stared at him in disbelief. He hadn’t doubted it at all, but clearly the man was quite, quite mad. 

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you.” Instead of tugging on the skimmer, as Harold had expected, he grabbed it and jerked it back at Harold. The handle sprung out of his grasp, slamming up to catch him under the chin. It was a painful surprise and he staggered back as he felt blood start to roll down his neck.

Lindquist seemed to have found his second wind. He was swimming awkwardly, but still nearly at the poolside.

“When I get out of here, I’m going to snap your neck, you crippled little bastard.” 

Harold backed up. Even if he reached the doors, he wouldn’t make his car before Lindquist caught him up. He could only watch, desperate, as Lindquist grabbed the rim and started to haul himself up.

John was there, suddenly, his foot braced on Lindquist’s shoulder. One strong push, and the man plunged back into the water. He surfaced again, scowling at John as he started to tread water.

“Stay there,” John told him.

He turned to Harold, caught hold of him as Harold felt his legs suddenly give way. “Finch?”

“I’m.... He pushed me in. John, are you alright? Where were you?”

“Fusco found the bodies of the two parents, but the students he disappeared were alive and in the boiler room. I’ve been trying to call you – then I saw your car parked here. What were you doing?”

“Looking for you,” he said. “Your phone....”

“There was no reception once I was in the boiler room. You thought I’d be here?”

Finch pushed himself off John and made himself stand upright. “A reasonable deduction. His truck was parked nearby, you were looking for him and then suddenly were out of contact. And he said that....” 

Harold let it go, then. No need for John to know what Lindquist had said.

John was glaring at the coach. “I can guess. Come on, I need to get you out of here. Someplace where you can get changed and I can check you over.”

Finch didn’t argue. He let John guide him, turning them towards the door. He was going to get in the car and turn up the heating as high as it could go.

“What about me?” Lindquist yelled after them.

John didn’t even turn around. “You’re the swimming coach. Swim.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for, you guessed it, another meme of interest prompt (there are just so many delicious prompts there) - Finch's injuries making swimming and treading water difficult.


End file.
